The Tear Catcher
by MiddayFiddler
Summary: He was talking about them once. Not to me, because it had nothing to do with tea or my blog or new suspicious contents of the fridge, which were according to his words the only things worthy discussing with me.


**The Tear Catcher**

He was talking about them once. Not to me, because it had nothing to do with tea or my blog or new suspicious contents of the fridge, which were according to his words the only things worthy discussing with me. No, he was talking to himself in order to solve another case. Yet he was expecting my contribution, as he had got used to, and I had got used to his silent acknowledgement. The case was easy, it only took few minutes and then he turned back into a curly beast in an old blue dressing gown tortured by boredom. I went back to my tea and newspaper that now seemed considerably less interesting. We both forgot about it, just another morning conversation not worthy to occupy space in our brains.

At least I think it was morning. It could very well be evening, with sun setting down and a newspaper that I did not have time to read during the day. I used to drink tea all day long, and all day long he used to wear that dressing gown. I wonder when did I start to forget. My therapist would tell me that it means that I am gradually adjusting to the fact that he will never come back. No, she would not use those words. He is dead, she says, as if it was not clear enough. She says it in the cold, emotionless voice he always used when talking about those utterly boring everyday occurences. John, buy milk. John, do not touch those testing tubes. John, I am dead. Yes, it was morning, because right before his monologue he informed me that he had started using my favourite tea cup for storing human eyeballs in formaldehyd. At least that can be considered proof that I did not make it up, that he really said that – cup full of eyeballs is really not what my imagination would be able to produce. At least I think so. Honestly, I am not sure of anything anymore.

I cannot recall what the case was about. Right before _that_ happened they all seemed the same – uninteresting, unimportant, not worthy more than few minutes during breakfast. Victorian mansions and collections of something and robbery or stealth this time, I think. The flask was there. Deep purple glass with silver embroidery-like lining on the neck, no taller than a pinkie and filled with transparent liquid. I remember wondering why. He sometimes brought small things home, because he was thinking I would have been interested in them rather then because of their relevance to the case. The flask was charming, it was beautiful, precise craftwork of a long dead artist. Yet there was something slightly disturbing about it – I had already learned to be suspisious of every unknown liquid in our appartement.

He was talking. Talking and talking, his long pale slender fingers absentmindedly playing with the flask he did not give to me as usually. It was strange, I only realize now. He would never do something so unnecessary. But it was sleepy morning – yes, it must have been morning then - and all I was able to focus on properly was the steam rising from my second favourite teacup. He was talking unexcitedly and quickly and his deep voice kept putting me back to the slumber I needed to escape. Then he stopped and looked at me, as if to check if I was listening.

I was not.

My therapist would tell me that it is normal. Or she would say something else, I honestly do not know. I do not listen to her either. She would say in a consolating voice that makes me want to run away, that I am not obliged to remember every word he uttered during breakfast. I know it, I would reply and would not really mean it. Because those words are something he left for me. That is what I would say and that is what my therapist would say, the only thing we would agree upon. I would not tell her what I _think_ he said. It could lead to very unpleasant consequences and besides, I do not really believe he would say that. As I mentioned, it was morning. I was half-asleep. I do not remember much.

When I finally gathered enough courage to come back to the apartement one of the days that followed, the flask was there and he was not. I felt empty and the apartement seemed empty and the flask was just standing on the cupboard among all the mess and was empty, too. The tears, he said, the tears gathered for the passed loved one. I did not bother to question that custom – Victorian, did he say? Or not? – back then. If I did, I would call it weird, maybe profane. Tears are nothing but a salt liquid. Not a proof of love. Love has no proofs, I would say and he would call me cheesy and I would get offended a bit. My therapist would say... well, I do not really care what my therapist would say.

The flask was there and it was the proof.


End file.
